Tasting France Through 5 Signature Dishes

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Clockwise from top left: bouillabaisse; choucroute garnie; cassoulet; galette; quenelle de brochet.CreditCreditFrance Keyser for The New York Times; Pascal Bastien for The New York Times; Julien Goldstein for The New York Times; Alex Cretey-Systermans for The New York Times; Philippe Schuller for The New York Times

By Ann Mah

May 22, 2014

I’ve always felt that a map of France reads like a menu. The very names of regions can incite ravenous pangs. Each has a signature dish, from Brittany’s butter-crisped crepes, to the generous cuts of pork draped over mounds of tangy sauerkraut in the eastern reaches of Alsace. Provence bursts with a rich soup of Mediterranean fish; the bounty of Languedoc’s flat, dry plains comes alive in the warmth of simmering cassoulet.

My love affair with French cuisine began when I moved to Paris for four years and began to explore my new home through food. But the capital’s renditions of regional dishes left me as cold as the bouillabaisse I was served at a storied establishment.

“When you move from the countryside and make yourself into a Parisian, one of the first things you ditch is your local dish, because to eat it is to show yourself as provincial,” said John Baxter, an Australian writer who has been living — and eating — in France for 23 years.

And yet, as Mr. Baxter explores in his book, “The Perfect Meal: In Search of the Lost Tastes of France,” great French dishes still exist in their original form, most notably at the place of their birth. Whereas Parisian restaurants often rely on frozen and industrially prepared ingredients (a trend so prevalent that the French Parliament recently adopted a law requiring restaurants to clearly label the dishes they prepare from scratch), “in the provinces, the food is made with local ingredients and it’s labor intensive — all the things that restaurants don’t want,” Mr. Baxter said. “This is one reason why people should and do eat outside of Paris.”

To understand French cuisine, I realized I had to visit the regions and meet the country chefs, farmers and home cooks who proudly preserve tradition. Last summer, I embarked on a tour of France through five of its signature dishes, a decadent journey that convinced me that the best, most honest food in France is found in the provinces.

In the Mediterranean fishing village of Cassis, I rose early and strolled along the port, watched local chefs and fishermen haggle over the morning catch and dined on the resulting bouillabaisse a few hours later. In the Languedoc, I visited a duck farm and witnessed the late-afternoon gavage — the controversial force-feeding that enlarges the liver — before joining a farmer for a glass of rough wine and a few slices of baguette spread with pâté de foie gras de canard.

Travelers have been eating their way around France, at least, since the 1920s, when the French food writer Maurice Edmond Sailland — known by his pen name, Curnonsky — published “La France Gastronomique,” a multivolume guide to the country’s regional cuisine. In the decade that followed, Les Accords de Matignon — a pet project of the Popular Front, the 1930s leftist political party led by Prime Minister Léon Blum — guaranteed two weeks’ paid vacation to French workers. Working-class travelers took advantage of the new policy and government-sponsored train tickets, streaming south to resort towns previously the exclusive domain of the bourgeois. Eventually the Guide Michelin replaced Curnonsky as the primary source for travelers, and hungry motorists ignited an interest in regional cuisine that became a French passion.

During my travels, I learned a few things: The best version of any dish is found at home, usually made by a local grandmother. And the term “best” is highly subjective; nostalgia, preference, mood and a hundred other elements factor in. In truth, each “best” is an intersection of history and place, culture and cuisine. Deep in the French countryside, food forms a connection — between the people at the table, between the generations who have passed down a recipe, between the terroir and the meal that has sprung from it, between you, the modern diner, and the history that continues to live on the plate.

Brittany: Galettes and Crepes

In the wild northwest of France, the coast is rocky, the oysters small and sweet, and the older generations still slip into Breton, a language with Celtic roots. The local cuisine is born of both the savage shoreline and interior green pastures: Seafood, butter and cream dominate, but so do paper-thin pancakes — savory and sweet — as delicate as fine lace.

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Top: the Au Vieux Quimper creperie in Quimper. Bottom: scenes from Quimper.CreditAlex Cretey-Systermans for The New York Times

Brittany draws a sharp distinction between savory galettes — made of wholesome, nutty buckwheat flour — and sweet, tender dessert crepes of beau blé, or white flour. The buckwheat galettes preserve a proud tradition of self-sufficiency. In the 15th century, Duchess Anne of Brittany saved the region from famine — and ensured its independence — by introducing crops of blé noir, or buckwheat, a hardy plant that thrived despite the area’s poor soil. Though highly nutritious, buckwheat lacks gluten, which limits its uses in the kitchen; “galettes are one of the few ways to consume it,” said Youenn Le Gall, a farmer and owner of the Ferme de Kervéguen, a local organic farm that produces the grain. Filled galettes are popular — especially the complète, stuffed with ham, cheese and a sunny-side-up egg — but older Bretons prefer to eat them plain, adorned only with a generous swipe of beurre de baratte, the region’s salted butter whipped from tangy, fermented cream.

Brittany, which covers a vast expanse, seems to have a creperie in nearly every village, and it’s hard to find a bad one. But the far western region of Finistère (“land’s end”) is particularly famous for its galettes, notable for their spongy centers and crispy edges. And its capital, Quimper, is home to the cradle of fine crepe eateries, Place au Beurre. Once a bustling outdoor marketplace, the dainty, cobblestone square is now surrounded with creperies like Au Vieux Quimper (20, rue Verdelet; 33-2-98-95-31-34; creperieauvieuxquimper.fr), which features lace-covered windows, hard cider served in bowls, and buckwheat galettes of remarkable delicacy stuffed with fillings like cheese, bacon and mushrooms cooked in cream.

Perched at an epicurean crossroads, Lyon, in the southeastern Rhône-Alpes region, has long rejoiced in the bounty of its surroundings: Provençal produce, Alpine butter and cheese, Bresse poultry, Beaujolais wine and Massif Central beef. But it was the Mères Lyonnaises who officially sealed the city’s culinary reputation. When the French economy crashed after World War I, these formidable female cooks shifted their talents from wealthy bourgeois mansions to the city’s restaurants and bouchons, using the region’s fine ingredients to prepare simple yet perfect meals. As automobile travel grew popular, word of Lyon’s exceptional cuisine spread, helped in large part by Curnonsky, who in 1934 declared the city “the world capital of gastronomy.”

Lyon’s classic dining places, bouchons, have existed for centuries. These casual establishments tend to be decorated in motley bric-a-brac; strangers sit elbow-to-elbow and the menu rarely deviates from dishes like tête de veau (poached calf’s head) and tablier de sapeur (a sort of chicken-fried tripe). But their most famous menu item is the quenelle de brochet, a football-shaped dumpling, similar to an oversize gnocchi, traditionally served in a coral-pink puddle of the shellfish-infused sauce called nantua.

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Serving quenelle de brochet at Café des Fédérations.CreditPhilippe Schuller for The New York Times

The dumplings, made of a soft, eggy, buttery choux dough that’s been beaten with puréed pike fish, must be poached in advance and puffed in the oven at the last minute. “Quenelles have been made in Lyon since the 15th or 16th century,” said Michel Vaivrand, who prepares the excellent ones at Au Petit Vatel (1, rue Pierre Corneille; 33-4-78-52-11-45; au-petit-vatel.fr), a take-away shop he owns with his brother, Frank. “Pike was once plentiful here in the Rhône river, but it’s very bony and hard to eat. Originally, quenelles were a way to stretch and preserve the fish.”

Quenelle quality varies widely: inferior versions tend to be overly dense, while the very finest feature a cloudlike texture. At Café des Fédérations (8, rue du Major Martin; 33-4-78-28-26-00; lesfedeslyon.com), a Lyon bouchon that has existed, as its sign indicates, “depuis bien longtemps” — for a very long time — the set lunch menu begins with an assortment of appetizers that includes local charcuterie, thinly sliced head cheese in vinaigrette, and lentil salad. The quenelle arrives straight from the oven, magnificently inflated and bobbing in a bubbling pool of creamy langoustine sauce. The friendly bouchon Chez Hugon (12, rue Pizay; 33-4-78-28-10-94; bouchonlyonnais.fr) and its newer offshoot, La Hugonnière (13, rue Neuve; 33-4-78-28-58-79), both offer an airy sponge of a quenelle, peppered with tiny holes. Paired with a creamy, wine-enhanced langoustine sauce, every bite floats off the fork.

Kitchen enthusiasts should head to Plum Lyon cooking school (49, rue des Tables Claudiennes; 33-9-51-72-22-08; www.plumlyon.com), which teaches students how to make quenelles at home, based on a recipe refined from the owner Lucy Vanel’s collection of antique cookbooks. In the homey teaching kitchen, students beat puréed cod into choux dough and learn to form the sticky mixture by shaping it between two spoons, before sitting down in the cozy dining room to enjoy their dumplings with a variety of sauces.

Languedoc-Roussillon and Midi-Pyrénées: Cassoulet

The territory once known as the Languedoc, in the southwest, is a sun-warmed expanse where medieval villages rise in the distance and grapevines sprawl across low hills. (After the French Revolution, the region was divided into administrative départements, and its ancient capital, Toulouse, became part of the Midi-Pyrénées.) The cuisine, rustic and slow-simmered, matches this bucolic landscape, with dishes like duck confit or the region’s renowned cassoulet washed down with robust local wine.

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Clockwise from top left: a chef cooking cassoulet at Hostellerie Etienne; the dish; making a cooking vessel for a future cassoulet; a landscape from a village not far from Castelnaudary.CreditJulien Goldstein for The New York Times

Perhaps no French dish has achieved greater mythical status than cassoulet, a hearty concoction of sausages, confit (typically duck), pork and white beans, cooked for hours. According to local legend, the dish was invented in the town of Castelnaudary — the self-proclaimed “capital of cassoulet” — during the Hundred Years’ War. Trapped by the English, the starving villagers pooled their last scraps of meat and beans, simmering everything in a giant caldron; after feasting on the ragout, the French soldiers regained their strength and rallied to chase the English all the way to the Channel.

Today, purists distinguish authentic cassoulet as much by its recipe as its cassole, the earthenware cooking vessel that gives the dish its name. “The local clay has a special capacity to retain heat and endure drastic changes in temperature without cracking,” said Jean-Louis Malé, a former grand-maître of La Grande Confrérie du Cassoulet de Castelnaudary, a society formed in 1972 to protect the dish. The deep bowl with sloping sides traditionally sat on the hearth, simmering continuously for hours, or even days, with scraps of food added at different intervals.

That long-simmering is key. “All the components must harmonize,” Mr. Malé said. “Nothing is more catastrophic than a cassoulet made at the last minute.” Indeed, the best versions are cooked and cooled — preferably overnight — at least three times, a slow process that yields beans redolent with the deep flavors of the confit and pork sausage, topped by a thin layer of the dish’s natural juice and starches sealed in the oven. (Though cassoulet recipes often call for a topping of breadcrumbs, they are “never found on the authentic version,” Mr. Malé said.)

In Toulouse, Le Colombier (14, rue Bayard; 33-5-61-62-40-05; restaurant-lecolombier.com) has cooked the same recipe for over a hundred years, a silken, nutmeg-scented version brimming with house-made sausage and goose confit, served in a warm, brick-walled dining room. At the Hostellerie Etienne (1, chemin St.-Jammes; 33-4-68-60-10-08; www.hostellerieetienne.com), a modern country inn located in Labastide d’Anjou, a hamlet near Castelnaudary, a waitress delivers the heavy earthenware dish straight from the oven, liquid bubbling gently along the edges. The sausage is rich and peppery, the duck confit shreds under a fork’s gentle pressure, and the beans are salty and velvety-plush. Happily (and dangerously), they’re served à volonté, or all you can eat.

Bouches-du-Rhône, Provence: Bouillabaisse

Provence famously bursts with abundance: floods of golden olive oil, pincushion-shaped goat cheeses, lavender-scented honey and dishes like ratatouille or soupe au pistou that feature the region’s sun-kissed produce. The rocky coast between Marseille and Cassis marries this agricultural bounty with Mediterranean catches to create one of the great classics of French cuisine, bouillabaisse. Like cassoulet, bouillabaisse has humble origins: it began as a plat du pauvre, a humble stew cooked by the fisherman’s wife that used up the unsold bits from the day’s catch.

“The name comes from two words, bouille” — to boil — “and baisse” — to lower — “which refers to the broth as it boiled and reduced,” said Doudou Daoudi, a waiter who has served the dish at various Cassis fish restaurants since 1964. In 1980, a group of restaurateurs created the Charter of Bouillabaisse to protect the integrity of the dish; the document prescribes the types of fish used — among them rockfish, red mullet, St-Pierre, monkfish and conger eel — as well as the ritual of serving it.

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Bouillabaisse at Chez Fonfon in Marseille and boats in Cassis. CreditFrance Keyser for The New York Times

“First we present the bouillabaisse and explain the names of the fish,” Mr. Daoudi said, “Then we filet them and serve them with boiled potatoes and the soup.” Croutons spread with rouille — a garlicky saffron-scented mayonnaise — add an earthy richness, while a tureen of extra soup is always on hand.

The best bouillabaisse combines sparkling fresh fish; a rich, red soup vibrant with echoes of the sea; and the dish’s elegant ceremony. The version at Chez Gilbert (19, quai des Baux; 33-4-42-01-71-36; chezgilbert.net) achieves all three. The fish is gently poached — the monkfish fillets are particularly tender and sweet — and the resulting soup is deep and layered, simmered thick with fish skeletons, eel and patience. The waiters hover at a comfortable distance, their ladles poised over a steaming tureen. For a more casual — and economical — experience, La Poissonerie, also in Cassis (6, quai Barthélémy; 33-4-42-01-71-56) dishes up a rustic version served on the premises of an old fish shop. The fish is sliced into steaks, not fillets, and the broth is unusually light and delicate. The cheerful service and outdoor terrace create a convivial atmosphere. In Marseille, Chez Fonfon (140, rue du Vallon des Auffes; 33-4-91-52-14-38; www.chez-fonfon.com) offers a classic bouillabaisse — with perfectly deboned fillets and a refined soup — served in a polished, if slightly cold, dining room overlooking the adorably toylike port of Vallon des Auffes.

Alsace: Choucroute Garnie

Nestled between the Vosges Mountains and the Black Forest, Alsace combines two cultures into one all its own, with its bilingual street signs in French and Alsatian (a language similar to Swiss German), medieval half-timbered houses and vineyards that produce long-necked bottles of riesling and gewürztraminer. In fact, the region has changed hands between France and Germany four times since 1870, with each new leader eager to erase the last. The cuisine reflects this cultural seesaw with soft salt-studded pretzels and yeasty cakes, a crème-fraîche-and-bacon-topped pizza called tarte flambée (in French) or flammekueche (in Alsatian), and the region’s signature dish, choucroute garnie.

The dish is farm fare, honest and satisfying: an array of cured pork — plump sausages, ham, slab bacon, knacks and more — accompanied by a tangy pile of slow-cooked sauerkraut, boiled potatoes and a dab of mustard. Its main component, fermented cabbage, has been part of the local diet since the 17th century — the word “choucroute” is a combination of French and German that translates as “cabbage cabbage” — a reliable source of vitamin C during bitter winters. A generation ago, many Alsatian families stored a stone vat of fermenting cabbage in the basement; today, most choucroute is factory-produced and sold precooked, ready to reheat and serve. Traditional Alsatian home cooks and chefs, however, wouldn’t dream of using anything but raw, lacto-fermented sauerkraut, and each has his or her own secret on how to simmer it into a tender, lightly tart, aromatic accompaniment to the region’s sausages and other cured pork.

Where to go depends on whether you are more interested in the sauerkraut or its meaty garnishes. If the answer is the latter, head to Porcus (6, place du Temple Neuf; 33-3-88-23-19-38; porcus.fr), a combination butcher shop and restaurant in Strasbourg. Though its cabbage is, unfortunately, factory-cooked and overly acidic, the accompanying artisanal sausages are a voluptuous parade of smoky, spicy, succulent links, crowned by the establishment’s snappy, award-winning knack, or hot dog, served in a bright and modern second-floor dining room.

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Choucroute garnie at Le Marronnier.CreditPascal Bastien for The New York Times

Sauerkraut aficionados will adore Au Pont du Corbeau, also in Strasbourg (21, quai St.-Nicolas; 33-3-88-35-60-68), a cozily dim winstub where the lunchtime choucroute garnie features a pile of house-simmered cabbage — lightly tangy and aromatic with wine and subtle spices — modestly draped with slices of smoked and salted pork belly, and a bright, peppery sausage. Housed in a traditional Alsatian farmhouse in the village of Stutzheim, not far outside of Strasbourg, Le Marronnier (18 Route de Saverne; 33-3-88-69-84-30; restaurantlemarronnier.fr) welcomes lively crowds of locals. Like them, I began with a crisp-edged, bacon-strewn tarte flambée, cooked in the kitchen’s wood-burning oven, before tucking into the generous choucroute garnie, piled high with seven different cuts of pork and sausage.

I sat for a while after this lavish meal — the final one of my tour — attempting to digest both the food and experience. I had thought of French food as a singular cuisine, but had come to understand that it was actually a broad spectrum of dishes, each one representing a region. Each place was fiercely proud of its local history, culture and accent — and united by the determination to preserve it.